Unless you count The Iron Bear, Friday's 'Workaholics' house party in downtown Austin had more "tight butthole" discussion than anywhere else at SXSW per capita.
Sadly, I wasn't a part of the excellent interview the UPROXX crew conducted with show stars Anders Holm and Blake Anderson during Workaholics Week back in October as I'd just started getting into the show (thanks, Netflix!). In fact, it was Warming Glow's Danger Guerrero who originally had the invite to the Comedy Central party, but once again my "only guy who lives in Austin" card fell, and I became one of the throng who filled 83 Rainey and pushed forward to get a picture with Adam, because holy sh*t, Adam is standing right there.
I threw together a little gallery of the sights and sounds from the afternoon, because this was the best place of the week to see inflatable dinosaurs, watch security guys pretend not to see you smoking pot out in the open and play meme-themed cornhole in somebody's front yard. It was VERY tight butthole.
Also, music happened. But we'll get to that.
Beer pong in the front yard. To my knowledge, nobody jumped off the roof and broke their back this year.
(also, if you got off the phone you'd probably have better aim)
A quick look at the line. The tree blocks the view, but it extends all the way down the street to the point that multiple friends texted me with "f**k that line, we're going to the crawfish thing next door".
The first band of the afternoon (at least for me ... and unfortunately I was on a schedule and couldn't stay for everyone else) was L.A. based indie-rockers A House For Lions. They gave off a pretty solid Blessid Union Of Souls vibe without the dated, sub-Barenaked Ladies nonsense that makes Blessid Union Of Souls terrible.
The lead singer also loved to do that thing where the frontman hops off stage and plays his guitar while he walks around in the crowd. The first time he did it I thought, "oh, cool, he's trying to get us into it and I probably shouldn't be Twittering" ("I probably shouldn't be Twittering" ends most of my sentences, as I am not a 12-year old girl), but when he broke it out again later I thought, "he probably does this all the time". I don't blame him for his efforts, though, because how do you play for a house full of head-nodders who are just waiting for the TV show cast to wander out from the V-VIP?
I regret not asking the guy if he named his band after Ford Field.
Up next (after an awkward introduction from Adam DeVine's dad) was L.A.'s Youngblood Hawke, the best band named after a Suzanne Pleshette film I saw perform all week. When they started up with a combo of drum pounding beats and trippy guitars I thought I was about to witness musical royalty -- it took me aback to the point that I started jotting down these grand statements of discovery, ready to write about how they were the new Margot & The Nuclear So-and-So's, perversely talented and undiscovered.
Then they started singing, and it hit me: "oh god, they're trying to be 311".
Maybe that's your bag, but it killed it for me. I don't know if Younblood Hawke will ever read this, but the lead singer only has one dance move ... I'm not sure what it's called, but it's that almost Running Man thing singers do where they bop back and forth and thrust their shoulders forward, never moving more than a step to the left or write. He did that consistently for half an hour.
The music was fine ("Dannyboy" would make a great instrumental), but yeah, when you tattoo an ampersand on your forearm you're making a life choice.
I won't brag about all the photos I took, but I had to share this one. I need to start dressing like Blake every day. Pretty happy people aren't always trying to touch my hair, though.